some folks call her handicapped, we call her our Wildflower Child

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The Blessedness of Bandaids

So as strange as it sounds, once upon a time, I was angry at a box of Bandaids.

A few years ago, My friend had sent me a wonderful care package, complete with food, fun, miniature animals…and a box of Bandaids for boo boos. They were cute and colorful and fun, if Bandaids can be fun.

It was one of the those boxes I looked at briefly then threw under the sink in my catch it all basket that got organized once a year and nearly never used.

And I thought to myself….’I never need to use Bandaids.’
And that made me sad.

I didn’t want to look at those Bandaids. Not because of the pain and boo boo it would cover, but because of the strange absence of boo boos.

You see, Kierra couldn’t walk, let alone roll over. She couldn’t pull things down on top of her (except for the mosquito netting that she managed to tangle in). She couldn’t pinch her fingers in the cupboard door or pull the cat’s tail or get a splinter from the wooden swing set.

Her socks stayed clean. Too clean. And there were not strays (except by my own making). Some days I would make excuses to get her a fresh shirt (and some days she would drool faster then I could think). Her shoes never wore out or had scuffed toes. Because she didn’t wear them. Her jacket was never torn from a hide out in the Rose garden. Even her mittens stayed way too clean and lasted for years.

While I didn’t want her to hurt or be in trouble or pain, I wanted the glorious normal of a messy life.

I wanted something other then boring sterile hospital Bandaids and gauze pads over lab draws for her.

I wanted dirty socks and holes in pants. Tonight, after we got home from an evening with friends, I was changing Kobe . His shoes were damp. His feet wreaked of sweat. And I delightfully changed them.

I will perhaps go down in record as the first person that delights in sweaty feet and holey jeans and dirty jackets. In missing socks and a child that screams bloody murder when I extract the tiniest splinter under the very first layer of his skin. And apply a gloriously cute puppy dog bandaid.

I love the dirt under his finger nails and the toe nails that are always stubbed short. The teeth that need brushing and the drinks that are handed into two tiny grasping hands. The very fact that he still wants me to give him bites of food doesn’t even bother me that much. Because I get to feed a child who TAKES BITES OF FOOD and CHEWS and SWALLOWS!!

Some times in the middle of the day, when he takes a tumble and is howling in my arms, I automatically check for broken limbs or bad ouchies and automatically think about dropping everything and heading for the hospital.

Then I remind myself. This is not Kierra. This is not an emergency. It never is with Kobe. And in the back of my mind, in some crazy way, I miss the adrenaline rush of totally focusing on a run to the hospital…(with a non life threatening emergency of course!)

So here’s my challenge to you this week when the dirty laundry piles high and the socks are all searching for soul mates.